Israphel
"You wot, mate?" Background Blood rushed in Israphel's ears and thrummed against the inner confines of his skull. Loose cloth spread out around him like a summer picnic blanket on the rough hewn stone bench on which he sat. The clatter of so many men, so many soldiers around him was like a whirlwind whose eye was fixed upon him. An ocean of elemental chaos surrouding an island of peace. A deep breath in and a slow breath out. Deep breath in. Slow breath out. Deep breath-- The twinge of pain from his chest cast his thoughts into enough disarray that a haze of memories bubbled up to the surface. They dragged him under into their murky depths without so much as a twitch of complaint. The sharp spike of pain in his gut snapped him from his blissful reprieve. A foot was vigorously introducing itself to his ribcage. Isra did not enjoy their harsh embrace; blacking out had been a blessing but this awakening was far from pleasant. As he curled in on himself instinctively to try to protect his vitals, his eyes shot open. Lean, wiry arms clutched around either side of his head. Ragged, scratchy, dirty clothes were torn in places from other blows he had not felt. He could feel every one of them now. A small puppy cowered just at the edge of his vision within a gutter. Three older boys that had been terrorizing it continued trying to kick him senseless. The puppy whined, a low keening sound that could melt the hardest heart. One of the boys whirled on it, his face a mask of hate. Far off, he heard the slap of feet against stone as Jori ran to his rescue. Jori was too far away. The boy would reach that puppy in but a single step. In a flash of furious brilliance, one of Isra's hands snapped out to grab at the distracted boy's ankles. He wrenched on the foot and his assailant toppled with a startled cry. Even over the hoots and howls of the other two, the thuds against his flesh, that sound of skull splitting against jagged rubble was deafeningly final. The crash of steel on stone hauled Isra back to the present and his gaze snapped across to the source. One of the soldiers in the midst of swiftly tugging on his platemail had dropped his helmet. It clattered across the ground, skittering to a halt in a corner as he stomped awkwardly over to retrieve it. Laughter and good-natured jeers rang out from all the others similarly getting ready for battle. The redhead just watched for a long moment, the roar of the crowd filling his ears as the tide of memory swept over him again. A hundred voices howled an inarticulate din from all sides and Isra relished in the madness. Blood dripped from a cut at his hairline, painting one side of his face scarlet. It burned as it leaked into his eye and stained his teeth bared in a rictus grin. He blinked quickly to clear his vision, almost missing the fist that streaked toward his jaw. Instead, it met his forehead before the punch could reach its full momentum. Knuckles yielded against skull with a sickening crunch. Isra leapt upon his opponent as he recoiled in pain, tackling him bodily to the ground. With fists like sledgehammers, he pummeled the man's face into pulp, ensuring he would not rise again. The fight ended to the tune of cheers and jeers of the sweaty, roaring audience. A hefty sack of gold found its way into his hand as he drew a cloak around his bare, bloodied chest. A wet rag sufficed to clean himself enough to be presentable for the walk home. A dark shadow fell across him as he stepped from the door to the underground fighting ring. Isra never saw the bottle that broke across the back of his head, knocking him to the cobblestones. When he rose in a blind rage, drunk on blood and seeing red, he never recognized the faces of the would-be muggers. By the time his fury was spent and he stood with split knuckles over three limp bodies, he found he did know them. Two men, gamblers and drunks, must have been unsatisfied with the outcome of the match. Perhaps they had thought their displeasure at losing their freely gambled gold justified an alleyway assault. He never got the chance to ask. The third man's face was more difficult to make sense of thanks to the mess that had been made of his nose. It had been long and hooked once, almost reminiscent of a beak, but was squashed flat under a thick coat of carmine. Between that, the beady brown eyes, and thin lips, the icy grip of horror slowly began to spread through Isra's veins. The ground seemed to ripple beneath his feet and he stumbled, barely catching himself as he toppled to his knees. '' ''Before his vision swam under the salty sting of tears, his eyes turned back to those empty dead eyes. The eyes of his lifelong friend, Jori. The grim reverie was broken when one of Isra's brothers in arms nudged him with an elbow. He gave a startled jerk, but recovered quickly enough as his gaze caught on the scarlet-on-silver holy symbol of a bastard sword crossed over a feathered wing. Without even realizing he had started, he forced himself to unclench his jaw and let the tension slip from his shoulders. Pushing off of the bench, he took hold of the soldier's breastplate straps and set to tugging them into place. The rest of his squadron, but for their single mage, bore the hallmark gleaming steel platemail and breastplates befitting of paladinry. Only he and the mage wore little more than decorative robes, both for their own reasons. The others were busy helping one another haul on their armor, as well, in preparation for joining the battle outside. This feeling, at least, was familiar. Lending a hand to his battle brother, checking over straps and buckles, ensuring blades were not pitted with rust or worse. Sweat, adrenalin, and fear mingled in the air. Isra could feel his heart thundering in his chest, just as he had when he first reluctantly joined the church. Half-expecting that the clergy could see right into his head to the sins he had committed. Fully anticipating they would believe his desires to atone to be hollow promises. And yet, here he flourished. Despite his trepidation, his grief, his fury. Despite it all, here among the disciples of Ragathiel, he had found both a purpose and a home. A strong hand clapped him on the shoulder in silent thanks just as the door to the barracks was booted open. The bulky silhouette of their commanding officer stood in the doorframe. Blood rushed in Israphel's ears and thrummed against the inner confines of his skull. But it was not nervousness or fear that burned through his veins and made him clench his hands into tight fists. The rage whose fire he had been stoking seethed within his chest. It was time to go. Appearance A piercing, green-eyed stare and fiery red hair easily cause this athletic figure to stand out in a crowd. Shorn short along the sides and back, Isra's hair spills from his crown in streaks of vermillion, topaz, and citrine that almost seem to dance like flames when he moves. When he anticipates combat, he binds it up in a ponytail but can never seem to tame the twin forelocks that frame his face. A light dusting of five-o-clock shadow always seems to coat his strong jaw and upper lip. Two small steel earrings hook into his left ear just past the lobe alongside a series of scars. They appear to be from having those same earrings torn out on multiple occasions. The rest of his face bears no noticeable scars but for a long-healed slash through the end of one eyebrow. Broad shoulders and a muscular torso more than make up for any scars his face was lacking. Blades, bullets, glass, fire, teeth, claw, and more all seem to have left their mark at one time or another on his flesh. From the loose clothing and open chested shirts he often bears, he wears them as marks of pride. Isra also smokes like a chimney. Personality Isra strives to be patient, kind, and just above all else. Sadly, he is not always successful in his efforts, thanks to the wealth of fury that his heart holds. In the heat of the moment, he has been known to jump to conclusions and ask far too few questions. When a fight will solve a problem far quicker and easier than words, he nearly always will take up arms. Even when the peaceful resolution may be the more favorable conclusion. Aspirations While cleansing the Reach of its great evils is his ultimate goal, Isra also wishes to find out why he was sent here while his brothers in arms went elsewhere. Beyond that, he intends to embody and preach the values of Ragathiel to anyone who will listen. Friends Mercy: "Well, she's right easy on the eyes, but there's somethin' what... Just ain' right about the lass. I enjoy her comp'ny good 'nuff, but I can' help but feel like I got 'er eyes on me more hours'a the day than not. 's right unnerving. Prob'ly somethin' t'do with them horns an' wings an' tail." Seren: "While 'll say the lass is absolutely terrifyin' in a fight, she's still good people. She don' strike me as any kinda madame 'd expect, but 'll be damned if she don' do a good job of it. I think. Hones'ly, I ain' got no idea. 'd let her watch me back any day'a the week, though." Kyros: "Good lad'n a proper friend, he is. Seen him give the shirt right off'a his back to a gent in need. Then 'gain, might'a just been a reason t'take off his shirt. Wouldn'a been the firs' time he took any excuse. Great to 'ave as a gym par'ner, too. He'n I go t'ree times a week, ev'ry Toilday, Oathday, 'n Starday. Invitation t'come join's always open." Category:Character